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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24102310">Ghosts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethgee/pseuds/elizabethgee'>elizabethgee</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Pilgrimage (2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Author Is Not Religious, Brother Ciaran is a good bro, Brother Diarmuid - Freeform, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Intrusive memories, M/M, PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Smut, The Mute, Violence, beard trimming, hair cutting, potential past suicide attempt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 00:01:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,180</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24102310</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethgee/pseuds/elizabethgee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Mute has good days and bad days.<br/>On a bad day, he gets injured.<br/>On a good day, Diarmuid cuts his hair.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brother Diarmuid &amp; The Mute, Brother Diarmuid/The Mute</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>(Question: How did the Mute become known as David? Where did this originate? I don't know, but I've seen it in fic in this community so I'm going with it. Please tell me if you know!)</p><p>(I don't own any of the characters, no copyright infringement is intended. I am also not religious, and again, no offense is intended. I'm just writing for fun.)</p><p>(Do not copy to other sites.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>         Diarmuid calls him “David.” He sees no reason to protest— he has nothing against the name— and he’ll gladly accept it if Diarmuid is the one giving it to him.  On good days, it feels like redemption. David can be anyone: he can be a quiet, strong man who lives with monks by the Irish ocean. He can be Diarmuid’s friend and confidant. He can be a shepherd, and a carpenter. He does all of those things as David.</p><p>         On bad days he remembers that David is the person Diarmuid made up for him when he washed ashore two years previous. On those days he gets stuck in his past and he shies from human contact, afraid that if anyone touches his skin they will sense the foulness in his soul.</p><p>         Diarmuid is innocent in a way that David is both awestruck of and frustrated by. He sees good in everyone and everything. He sees good in David, and tells him so frequently. David screams in his head whenever he says such things—such blasphemous, heinous lies. If Diarmuid could see David’s past even he would balk and avert his eyes.</p><p>         David knows he’s skilled in the art of violence. He’s been trained to fight and he’s done it successfully for a long time. It is his constant agony to see ghosts of the men he has killed and the men who have died by his side. He tried, once, to let the enemy drive a sword through him on the battlefield and end the stain of his existence on this plane. Some beastly instinct would not let him give in to Death, and he came out of the battle alive, as always.</p><p>         There are days when he is more haunted by the past than others. Brother Ciaran sees it more than most. When David’s especially haunted, Brother Ciaran will shift his duties for the day and ask him to assist Diarmuid with his daily chores. David would be ashamed of his own weak, fractured nature if he were not so grateful for the excuse to forget his past self and just be Diarmuid’s David for a while.</p><p>--</p><p>         The weather is hot and damp late in the summer season, and David wakes on one such warm day with a vile memory behind his eyes and that makes his skin crawl and his hands shiver.</p><p>         He stumbles through the morning, knowing this will be one of the days where ghosts follow him. As he works to shear the wool from the monk’s small herd of sheep, he’s grateful for their calm presence. These little animals trust him with sharp metal in his hands, not knowing what he’s done to other beasts.</p><p>         Their wool is soft and warm, and they occasionally nose inquisitively at his hands and the pockets of his pants, looking for the small grains of oats he sometimes doles out as treats.</p><p>         He has long since removed his shirt, sweating in the hazy sunlight as Diarmuid sits in the shade of a tree reading one of Brother Ciaran’s herbal books. It’s reassuring to have him nearby. David can look up whenever he gets too lost in his head, and Diarmuid will sense his gaze and wave to him.</p><p>         He cuts through wool and remembers the give of flesh beneath a sword. He smells salt and remembers the iron of blood in the air and the taste of bile coating his throat. His back burns from the heat and the stretch of scars tug uncomfortable memories to the forefront of his mind.</p><p>         An echoing boom of thunder rolls over them from the ocean and the sheep beneath his hands startles and bolts.</p><p>         The shears slip and there’s a sharp sting of heat in his palm. He looks down and sees red— thick and alarming— pooling in his palm and sliding down his skin, dripping onto the grassy hillside. His mind rebels and he feels as though he’s standing behind himself, watching from above as his body stares at the wound. Instead of the roar of the ocean he hears the roar of men and horses, clashing of metal, the pounding of his own blood through his ears.</p><p>         “David!”</p><p>         David blinks rapidly, pulled back into his own body and looking up to find Diarmuid several feet from him, eyes wide and full of worry.</p><p>         “Let me help,” Diarmuid requests, reaching to untie the hood of his robes.</p><p>         Understanding his intentions, David shakes his head. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he sees his blood on Diarmuid. David grabs his discarded shirt, pressing the cloth to the wound and letting out a low groan of pain. It’s a deep wound, and he won’t be able to use his hand for a while.</p><p>--</p><p>         Brother Ciaran frowns at the sight of the wound and carefully cleanses and dresses it, telling him with stern eyes to come back to have the dressing replaced every morning and evening to avoid infection. He doesn’t mention the shaking or how David can’t look him in the eyes.</p><p>         David's duties are altered in the meantime to allow him to work on less strenuous tasks. Unfortunately the injury is on his dominant hand and he finds simple tasks oddly difficult.</p><p>         (“<em>Left,”</em> sneers the memory of his hometown pastor. “<em>The side of the devil</em>,” he would say, brimstone eyes burning with a sick fervor. He tried to hide his handedness after that.)</p><p>         One of the more irritating disadvantages of injuring his dominant hand is that he cannot trim his own hair and beard. It’s getting scraggly and he finds himself scratching his jaw often, tugging at the hair and grimacing. He catches Diarmuid’s curious gaze several times, watching as David frowns and runs frustrated fingers along his jaw.</p><p>--</p><p>         David should not be surprised by Diarmuid’s suggestion. He wants to refuse, but he really would like to get rid of some of his overgrown hair. So he nods, slowly, and Diarmuid’s smile is reward enough for the acquiescence.</p><p>         He pulls off his shirt and sits on one of his chairs, facing the small fire in the hearth so that Diarmuid can see what he’s doing in the low light of David's stone hut. </p><p>         Diarmuid steps close, standing between David’s knees. David feels a sharp tug in his guts and swallows, pulling his eyes up to focus of Diarmuid’s soft, round eyes.</p><p>         Diarmuid runs his hands through David’s hair, pulling chunks of hair up and cutting the hair above his fingers and away from David’s scalp.</p><p>         It’s bliss and agony simultaneously, and he has to keep his eyes shut to keep moisture from falling from them. It’s been a very long time since anyone has touched him with such care.</p><p>         Eventually, Diarmuid stops cutting and pauses.</p><p>         “I’m going to do your beard now,” Diarmuid says for his benefit, and David nods, thinking he's okay and his ghosts will leave him alone. But the sight of shears bending towards his neck makes him forget where he is and he reaches out, gripping Diarmuid’s wrist and flinching his face away.</p><p>         “It’s just me,” Diarmuid murmurs, voice a balm against David’s memories.</p><p>         “It’s only me, David.”</p><p>         David sucks in a breath and nods, uncurling his hands from Diarmuid’s wrist. Diarmuid spends a long time just running his hands through David’s beard, untangling and petting his jaw. David would feel offended at being treated like a spooked horse, but he can’t complain when Diarmuid’s fingers are pressing into his skin. It’s slow going, but eventually Diarmuid has trimmed his beard to a more normal, manageable length.</p><p>         Diarmuid places the shears on the table and rakes his hands through David’s hair and along his jaw once more, admiring his work.</p><p>         “Much better,” he smiles, and David looks up at him, knowing that his eyes are saying too much.</p><p>         As he stares, Diarmuid’s gaze drops to David’s chest and David’s breath hitches, heart swooping. The hunger in Diarmuid’s gaze is unmistakable, and not something David ever thought he would be directed towards him. Diarmuid glances up, catches his gaze, and his fair skin flushes as blood rushes to his cheeks. He steps away and stutters as he moves to collect his shoes, leaving a cold space between David’s knees.</p><p>         “I should—I have to be up early, you know,” he explains as though he doesn’t have to be up early every morning. David reaches out and touches the back of Diarmuid’s hand, sliding his fingers up to encircle his wrist. His grip is light so that Diarmuid can pull away easily if he wants.</p><p>         But Diarmuid does not try to escape his grip. David brings Diarmuid’s hand up to rest against his cheek and Dairmuid’s shining brown eyes jerk to meet his gaze. Slowly, David turns his face and presses his lips to the warm, delicate skin of Diarmuid’s wrist. Diarmuid lets out a shock of breath, pupils blowing wide, and David holds his lips to Diarmuid’s wrist for a long moment, inhaling the scent of his skin and turning, running the freshly cut hair on his cheek against the delicate skin before letting go. But Diarmuid does not move to flee his presence, as David thought he would. Instead, Diarmuid is frozen with his hand close to David’s face, thinking hard.</p><p>         David cannot speak, but Diarmuid always understands his silent language, and David sees the puzzle pieces fall together in Diarmuid's eyes. </p><p>         Diarmuid sees the gentle offer in David's gesture.</p><p>         He suddenly steps into David’s space, places his hands on David’s waist, and leans close, pressing his lips against David’s. It’s David’s turn to be shocked, and before he can respond properly Diarmuid has turned and disappeared out the door.</p><p>         David stares after him for a long time, lips burning and chest tight.</p><p>         The wound on his hand doesn't hurt for the first time in several days.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Contact</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>What happens after Diarmuid kisses David?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've never written smut. Please excuse my lack of experience.<br/>No offense is intended. This is just for fun. :)</p><p>(Sidenote: In this story Diarmuid is older than in the film. He is at least the age of consent.)<br/>(I do not own these characters. Do not repost.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>         It has been a couple days since Diarmuid cut David’s hair, and while Diarmuid isn’t avoiding him, he has been quieter than usual. He blushed bright red when he saw David the morning after the incident, but David had acted normally and Diarmuid seemed to relax throughout the day.</p><p>         They did not talk about what happened, and David would not press the issue. David knows he overstepped and embarrassed Diarmuid and he didn’t want to make it more difficult for the Novice. If Diarmuid wanted to pretend it didn’t happen then David would follow his lead.</p><p>         David should have known better than to think Diarmuid would let it go and the quiet knock on his door late one evening proves it to him.</p><p>         Diarmuid standing anxiously in his doorway, hair in a disarray from running his fingers through the curls. It’s a habit David noticed Diarmuid resorts to when he’s particularly frustrated by something and the sight of it now makes David's heart jump with tension.</p><p>         David knows his surprise is obvious on his face, but Diarmuid looks both anxious and determined so David steps back to let him in. He figures Diarmuid will want to chastise him for his transgressions (as he rightly should), however the moment David closes his door Diarmuid steps close, reaches up to grip the back of David’s neck, and pulls him down so Diarmuid can press his lips to David’s.</p><p>         He pulls back quickly to gauge David’s reaction with scrutinizing eyes. David blinks at him, his spinning thoughts finally quiet for the first time since Diarmuid had kissed him those several days previous.</p><p>         Whatever Diarmuid sees must be acceptable, because he reaches out to grip David’s uninjured hand, tugging David to the bed.</p><p>         David follows Diarmuid’s lead as always, sitting when Diarmuid puts hands on his shoulders and presses with gentle fingers. He looks up at Diarmuid to find that same determined look mingling with a blush on his cheeks.</p><p>         Diarmuid opens his mouth as though to say something and David's eyes drop to his lips. Instead of speaking, Diarmuid hitches up his robe and kneels in David's lap. Having Diarmuid so close suddenly makes David’s insides heat rapidly and his hands automatically go to Diarmuid’s waist— holding him close so he won't fall. He smells of arousal and flushed skin, brown eyes glittering in the low light.</p><p>         Diarmuid presses his hands against David’s chest and David lets himself be guided to lay on the bed. Diarmuid pauses, swallowing, watching David’s eyes track the movement of his throat.</p><p>         “Is this okay,” Diarmuid asks. The unexpected question makes David’s eyes dart up to meet Diarmuid’s gaze. No one had ever asked him that before.</p><p>         He so blindsided that he just stares up at Diarmuid, mouth parted in shock.</p><p>         “You wouldn’t let me do something you didn’t want, right,” Diarmuid insists. He shifts, moving to get off David—</p><p>         David grips Diarmuid’s thigh, stopping him. He shakes his head frantically, reaching his uninjured hand up to press against Dairmuid’s cheek.</p><p>         Diarmuid smiles, tension sliding away from his brow as he lowers himself back down into David's lap.</p><p>         “I don’t really know…” Diarmuid starts, pressing his hands against David’s waist. David understands what he can’t say and takes the hint that he should take the initiative.</p><p>         Diarmuid seemed to like to like the feel of David’s waist beneath his hands, so his sits up a bit and reaches behind his back to pull his shirt off.</p><p>         Diarmuid’s breath hitches as David lays back down, tossing his shirt to the floor. He would be embarrassed by his marred skin, but Diarmuid’s wide pupils only show desire so David lets him look his fill. The cool air and Diarmuid's heated gaze make his skin shiver and twitch, and he prays for patience, not wanting to scare Diarmuid away.</p><p>         Diarmuid’s hands move to hover over the bare skin of David's belly, eyes darting up to meet his, asking silent permission. David nods and Diarmuid carefully presses his hands flat against David’s abdomen, sucking in a breath between his teeth.</p><p>         “I keep forgetting how strong you are,” Diarmuid whispers, hands sliding along the muscles of his stomach.</p><p>         Diarmuid slowly runs his palms up and pauses by David’s ribs. He watches his hands expand and contract with David’s ribcage for a moment before continuing upwards. David’s breath hitches as Diarmuid’s hands run over his nipples and Diarmuid pauses, eyes darkening at David’s response. Diarmuid carefully run his thumbs back and forth across David's chest, making David’s breath ramp up and blood race to his groin, hips jerking and hands twisting in his own bedding. Diarmuid’s mouth drops open, his own breathing picking up in sympathy.</p><p>         “David,” Diarmuid says, voice husky as he watches David twist and pant.</p><p>         Before it becomes too much Diarmuid continues his exploration, pressing his hands against David’s shoulders and leaning forward.</p><p>         The feeling of him pressing David down is both good and horrible. David has never done well with being restrained, and even with Diarmuid being the one restraining him…</p><p>         But Diarmuid leans down and presses soft lips to his, distracting him easily. David’s hands press into Diarmuid’s thighs, gripping the muscle there and Diarmuid lets out a low moan at the strength in his hands.</p><p>         David presses his tongue against the seam of Diarmuid’s lips and Diarmuid catches on quickly. They get distracted, kissing deeply as time dissolves and becomes meaningless.</p><p>         David forgets himself and tangles a hand in Diarmuid’s hair, tilting his head and pressing his teeth to Diarmuid’s neck with a low rumble, and Diarmuid’s hips press into his hard, reminding David of their neglected erections.</p><p>         David readjusts his grip on Diarmuid’s thigh and shifts, pressing his foot into the ground and rolling them so that David is kneeling between Diarmuid’s spread thighs. Diarmuid lets out a breath of surprise and David worries that he has been too enthusiastic but Diarmuid smiles up at his giddily and reaches a hand out, gripping the back of his neck and pulling.</p><p>         David lowers himself carefully, concerned about his weight against Diarmuid, but Diarmuid just keeps pulling him closer until they're chest to chest. No doubt sensing David’s worry, Diarmuid presses his fingers into David’s short beard and kisses him—his lips, his brow, his cheeks, smiling when David huffs out a laugh and grips Diarmuid’s waist, rolling his hips down against Diarmuid’s erection in retaliation.</p><p>         Diarmuid gasps, hips jerking up in response, and the mood shifts and everything is frantic. David shifts up to take himself out of his pants and Diarmuid hurries to do the same. He’s gratified by the surprise in Diarmuid’s eyes at the sight of his sex, but even more gratified by the way Diarmuid reaches for him, hands around his back and urging him close again. He lowers himself slowly, pressing their bare hips together.</p><p>         Diarmuid lets out a loud moan, hands raking up David’s back, nails catching on scar tissue as David sets up a slow, rolling pace. He leans down, kissing Diarmuid’s mouth, one arm braced against the bed and the other gripping Diarmuid’s thigh to pull him as close as possible.</p><p>         Diarmuid whines against his lips, mumbling his name over and over, the pleading sound making David wild with lust. He sneaks a hand between their bodies, gripping them together and squeezing, thumbing the moisture at the head of Diarmuid’s erection. Diarmuid shouts, heading tilting back and swollen red lips dropping open as he comes against David’s hand. The sight is too much and David leans down and bites Diarmuid’s shoulder, hip jerking as he spills with a growl between them. It lasts forever and not long enough before David’s strength gives out and he collapses next to Diarmuid.</p><p>        They drift softly, Diarmuid’s hand running along David’s side, fingers reverent against the long-healed silver scars. Diarmuid’s touch starts to feel hesitant after several long moments, anxiety sliding back into his posture. David reaches for him, pulling him close. Diarmuid doesn’t need any more encouragement and plasters himself along David’s side, hand continuing it’s lazy exploration of David’s torso with more surety.</p><p>         David knows they should clean up, but exhaustion has hit them both and David finds he cannot protest as Diarmuid grabs the blanket at the end of David’s bed and pulls it over them. He leans up to kiss David once more before settling down for sleep.</p><p>         “I should always cut your hair if it leads to this,” Diarmuid murmurs, smiling against David’s neck when his chest jolts with silent laughter.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Horizon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This one's a bit short and sad... but the next one is going to be very raunchy, my friends. Maybe posted on Sunday....???</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>       It’s so painfully loud. Somehow, in the stories of glorious battles passed down to him by the elders in his hometown, they all failed to mention the piercing barrage of noise. No matter the battle, for hours afterwards men would walk around yelling, unable to hear each other, or vomiting what meager food they had eaten in shock at their own survival. Each man had their own demons behind their eyes, and they watched each other’s get stronger with every battle they survived.</p><p>       He watches a man die with a well-aimed blow from his sword, brains spilling out from split skin and exposing the cracked white bone of his skull. The desert gold dirt mixes with spilled blood to create a sick mud— sucking at their boots and making men slip and gag. His lungs burn ragged with his gasping breaths, salted sweat and blood dripping into his eyes and blinding him. The violence goes on forever— as far as he can see.</p><p>
  <em>       What battle is this? How did he get here? </em>
</p><p>       A sweating horse mad with terror bolts by him— a ton of muscle and bulk bearing down on him and making him leap out of the way, tripping to his knees and sinking into the filth. A familiar cry rises above the din behind him and the sweat on his skin turns frigid.</p><p>
  <em>       No. It’s not possible.</em>
</p><p>       But it is— Diarmuid is here, in hell, standing unarmed in his brown monk’s robes, innocent eyes filled to the brim with horror as he gapes across the battlefield.</p><p>       The bones of his legs ache when the Mute pulls himself up out of the muck and he stumbles as though blanketed in a thick fog. His mind leaves him and drops his weapon.</p><p>       There’s no time to question it— he must protect Diarmuid. He reaches out and manages to grab the Novice’s shoulders—narrow and not at all built for battle. Diarmuid’s eyes meet his, his pale face stark and sick looking.</p><p>       “Why are you here,” the Mute yells.</p><p>       Diarmuid’s pretty brown eyes shift over the Mute's shoulder, pupils shrinking and mouth dropping open to scream—</p><p> </p><p>       David jolts upright, gasping for air. Sweat pours down his shoulders and in his flailing he manages to slam an elbow into cold stone. The pain shocks him back into the present and he stares around with wide eyes. He’s in his stone house by the ocean. He’s safe in Ireland. He gasps for an entirely different reason, body trembling with a relief so thick he feels tears well in his eyes. Hiding his face in his hands, he waits for his breathing to calm. He will not find any more sleep this night— and he knows from experience that if he does manage to get any more rest it will be an unsettled sleep that will leave him tired and unfocused for the rest of the day.</p><p><em>       Water mint</em>, he thinks desperately. <em>That will chase the ghosts back. </em></p><p>       He stands, nearly falling to his knees with residual weakness. Water mint always soothes his nerves when they are frayed. The drink reminds him of when he first arrived at the monastery— where he is treated with unearned kindness and consideration, where he met Diarmuid—</p><p>     <em>  Diarmuid.</em></p><p>       Images of his dream blossom in front of him like a garish tapestry: Diarmuid amongst the carnage of battle, wide brown eyes filling with ghosts just like David’s ghosts—</p><p>       Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s out the front door and heading across the monastery for Diarmuid and Ciaran’s sleeping quarters. He knows he should not disturb them, but his mind will not settle until he sees that Diarmuid is safe. It’s absurd to be worried— just hours before Diarmuid had pressed smiling lips to his, tangling his fingers in David’s shirt and laughing when David rubbed his beard along Diarmuid’s cheek.</p><p>       The door opens silently under his touch, moonlight spilling across the ground and illuminating the small interior in cold blue. Diarmuid is there, where he is supposed to be, bundled in sheep’s wool and cotton.</p><p>       Disturbed by the light, Diarmuid shifts, blinking confused sleep from his eyes. When he recognizes David his eyebrows pull up in surprise. David grimaces and holds up a hand to tell him everything is fine, but of course Diarmuid— being the stubborn, strong-willed person he is— immediately slides out of his bed and pads silently out into the night air.</p><p>       Closing the door between them and Ciaran, Diarmuid frames David’s face with his hands.</p><p>       “What’s wrong,” he whispers, and David marvels at the concern in his young face. His warm skin is cool against David’s burning jaw and David takes a moment to savor the feeling.</p><p>       "What happened? Are you injured,” Diarmuid's voice turns urgent when David doesn't respond.</p><p>       David feels foolish, suddenly. His eyes bolt to the ground and he takes Diarmuid’s hands from his face, shaking his head and pressing his lips to Diarmuid’s knuckles. He holds his lips against Diarmuid’s skin, breathing softly against his fingers and trying to think of a way to get Diarmuid to let the issue go. But Diarmuid maps his face with clever eyes and reads the events on his skin.</p><p>       “Bad memories?”</p><p>       David lets out a long breath, twisting his mouth in confirmation. Diarmuid stares at him for a while, then:</p><p>       “Let’s go for a walk by the ocean."</p><p> </p><p>       They walk side by side in the sand as the sky begins to lighten with daybreak. Diarmuid talks quietly about whatever is on his mind, occasionally brushing his hand against David’s and looking at him closely. David must be staring too much, because Diarmuid steps close and wraps his arms around David's chest, pressing his face against David's jaw.</p><p>       "You get this look in your eyes sometimes. You look at me like I'm going to disappear into thin air," Diarmuid whispers.</p><p>       "I'm not going anywhere," Diarmuid assures, stepping back and taking David's injured palm in his hands. It's only been half a month since the injury occurred, but it feels like the wound has been there for years.</p><p>       “This will he healed soon,” Diarmuid says, careful to put light pressure on David’s palm.</p><p><em>       It will not</em>, the Mute wants to scream, all the terror and rage from his dream crashing back into him at once. <em>It will never heal.</em></p><p>       He swallows so hard his throat clicks audibly and he turns to stare out onto the endless ocean. Diarmuid presses carefully against his palm to get his attention and David meets his gaze.</p><p>       “This will be healed soon,” Diarmuid says again, voice certain. </p><p>       As he stares down at Diarmuid’s steady brown eyes, David feels the sudden heat of the sun pierce the horizon and warm his skin.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Peak</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Diarmuid thinks he's being sneaky. He's not.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I said I was going to update on Sunday but whoops I'm impatient.</p><p>Also: This is super raunchy. I'm kinda embarrassed but I'm not sorry.</p><p>----</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>         “The bandaging is no longer necessary,” Ciaran says, removing the cloth from David's hand and flexing David's fingers with his, pressing carefully against the slender red scar along his left palm.</p><p>         “Though you must remember: skin heals on the surface faster than it does within the body. While this looks healed, it may not be completely serviceable. Be careful with it,” Ciaran insists, wild eyebrows pulled down in demand. David nods and takes the words to heart. He’s much too familiar with the deep ache of unhealed scars to ignore the herbalist's advice.</p><p>         “You should massage along the healed tissue every day. That will encourage the tissue beneath to heal,” Ciaran says and gestures him out the door.</p><p>---</p><p>         David is staring at him with questioning eyes. Diarmuid shifts in his chair and fiddles with the wood mug in front of him, nearly spilling warm water across David's tabletop with his jumpy energy.</p><p>         “Do not look at me like that. Brother Ciaran said he told you about it, and if he says so, then you must do it.”</p><p>         David crosses his arms at him and Diarmuid rolled his eyes.</p><p>         “It may be tedious, but it’s important. Here,” Diarmuid says, pulling the chair closer and holding his hand out.</p><p>         “Let me do it,” he says, trying and failing to sound commanding. David huffs but unfolds his arms and sits, holding out his left hand.</p><p>        </p><p>         David had been tense at first, fingers curled protectively over the scar tissue, but after long moments of careful massage his eyelids start to droop and his fingers splay out.</p><p>         It’s mesmerizing to see David so calm—slumped back in the chair, thighs dropped open and shoulders rounded. There’s something sinfully powerful about being the one to cause such a reaction, and while Diarmuid suspects he’s being dangerously prideful he cannot see a reason to stop— not when it’s clear that he’s providing some comfort to his friend.</p><p>         He gets lost in the sight and the soft feel of David’s large hand under his fingers. It’s only the call for their evening meal that makes him come back to himself. He coughs and David blinks at him, glancing down to his lap and quirking an eyebrow at him.</p><p>         Blood rushes to his face and he hurries to suggest that they go eat. He’s not sure how to define their new relationship, and he doesn’t want to apply pressure where it’s unwelcome. David does anything the monks ask— he has never refused any task put in front of him— but Diarmuid doesn’t want David to…lay with him…unless he wants to. They had exchanged kisses many times and David had seemed very receptive. Promisingly, the only time they had lain together he seemed pleased, but Diarmuid doesn’t know if that was something David wants to happen again. Diarmuid would very much like for that to happen again.</p><p>         Diarmuid frets the rest of the evening, feeling unsure and frustrated. He knows he is horribly stubborn— a trait that his brothers frequently chastise him for— but he cannot dismiss the situation from his mind.</p><p>---</p><p>         It’s late into the next day, after his noon prayers, that he makes a decision. The thinks through his plans until late into the evening, barely touching his evening meal.</p><p> </p><p>         The wood of David’s door is rough under his knuckles when he knocks against it. David, as always, immediately steps back to let him in. He knows he’s being too quiet because David keeps shooting surreptitious looks his way in between heating water and pulling out mugs and herbs for tea.</p><p>         “Have you massaged your hand today,” Diarmuid manages to ask in a somewhat normal tone.</p><p>         David shrugged a shoulder: David's way to say he had done so, but wasn’t willing to admit it.</p><p>         “Don’t tell me it didn’t help yesterday when I did it for you,” Diarmuid insists and holds his hands out. David just sits and places his hand in Diarmuid’s, huffing out a breath at Diarmuid’s pleased look.</p><p>         He’s only half concentrated on the task of massaging the red scar along David’s palm as he looks for the words he wants to use.</p><p>         “Brother Ciaran has taught me a lot about the care of scars and injuries,” he starts, watching David blink sleepy eyes at him.</p><p>         “And I was wondering if you would be averse to me massaging the wounds on your back,” he suggests, trying to make it light and effortless.</p><p>         He does not succeed. David’s eyes go alert very quickly, and Diarmuid thinks he’s going to be shooed from the small stone house, but David clenches his jaw and thinks for a long while before tilting his chin in agreement.</p><p> </p><p>         He gestures David to sit close to the hearth, figuring the heat from the fire will help relax him. David reaches back and pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it aside in a manner very unlike him. Diarmuid watches the muscle of his shoulders shift in the firelight— the stretch of the dark tattoo between strong shoulders. The scars on his torso are thick and overwhelming, turned silver with age. As his eyes catalogue the scars, pain blooms in Diarmuid’s chest as he remembers Brother Ciaran's explanation about the correlation between the thickness of a scar and it’s depth. There are a lot of very wide scars along David’s body. He knows David is uncomfortable with prolonged attention to his wounds so he speaks quietly, talking about his day to distract the Mute as he slowly massages his fingers into the scars. Every once in a while, when David starts to tense, he stops and runs flat palms along his shoulders and along the back of his neck until he relaxes again.</p><p>         It takes a lot of concentration. The feel of David’s skin beneath his hands and the vulnerable tilt of his neck is horribly tempting, but he cannot rush this.</p><p>         He gathers what courage he can find and suggests that perhaps it would also be good to provide the same treatment for the scars across David’s chest. Judging by the sudden spark in David’s dark eyes, he has caught on to Diarmuid’s intentions.</p><p>         There’s a moment when Diarmuid is sure David is going to refuse, but instead…</p><p>         He moves to his bed, lays back, and one side of his mouth tilts up in a smirk.</p><p>         A laugh bursts out of Diarmuid and he follows, stopping to stand at the edge of the bed. He hesitates for a moment, bravado leaving him now that David is facing him. But David is patient and tilts his head, watching him, not expecting anything. Diarmuid feels a blush jump to his cheeks remembering their activities the last time he had been in David’s bed. Wanting to cover his sudden anxiety, he kneels on the cotton bedding, watching David’s face carefully while he settles into the same position David accepted last time. Knees spread across David’s thighs, he starts high up on David’s shoulders with a very light touch, gradually using more pressure as he regains his confidence and David relaxes in this new position.</p><p>         The last time he was allowed to touch David so freely he hadn’t had much of a chance to really appreciate how beautiful David is. Now he has all the time in the world. He finds himself intoxicated by all the skin beneath him— the shift of the Mute's muscles as Diarmuid’s fingers find sensitive spots, the way his breathing picks up and sweat starts to gather across his tanned skin, glittering in the firelight. David's stomach muscles jump and clench as Diarmuid’s fingers press along his skin, the heady scent of David’s arousal filling the air.</p><p>         He remembers how David had reacted to his nipples being touched last time and, after mapping out the shape of David’s chest and waist with his hands, he gathers his courage and leans down, pressing his lips to David’s chest. David’s hips jolt hard beneath his, and Diarmuid can feel how hard David is beneath his pants. He smiles against David’s chest, shifting to press his lips against the Mute’s other nipple before leaning back and plucking at the waistband of David’s pants.</p><p>         “Okay,” Diarmuid asks, holding his breath.</p><p>         David breathes heavily for a moment, then nods quickly. Diarmuid tugs at the leather ties of David’s pants, fingers clumsy with his haste. He lifts himself slightly so he can pull at David’s pants, sliding the material down his thighs. He takes some time to stare down at David’s unclothed body. He has never really seen another man in such a state before beyond the glimpse he had gotten the last time he was in David’s bed. Inexplicably, Diarmuid’s mouth starts to water and he swallows, looking up to find David’s hungry eyes watching him.</p><p>         His gaze gives Diarmuid the confidence to press his fingers into David’s hips and slide a hand down, taking his erection into his hand. The skin there is hot and harder than he expected, but David’s loud groan is all the encouragement he needs to start exploring.</p><p>         He spends a long time dragging careful fingers along David’s length, feeling out the places that make his hips twitch, what makes him suck in a quick breath, the spots that him gasp, spending too much time pressing against the foreskin and watching David squirm. He runs fingers though the fluid gathered at the head of his erection and David <em>whines</em>.</p><p>         Gut punched at the sound, Diarmuid rubs his fingers into the weeping slit again and again, coaxing more of the slick clear fluid out and rubbing it into his skin.</p><p>         David clenches the bedding in his fists, fighting to keep still, veins along his arms standing out in the heat of the room. Diarmuid remembers how David had touched him last time and sets up a quick rhythm, mesmerized by how David’s hips roll with his movements, the blissful agony on his face as white fluid spills onto his belly.</p><p>         Diarmuid keeps up the touch until David starts twitching with oversensitivity. He cannot help but lean forward and kiss David’s slack mouth, overwhelmed by the trust David has placed in him to witness such vulnerability. David’s fingers unclench from the bed and he slides his hands into Diarmuid's curls, making him shiver as his own suppressed arousal crashes back into his consciousness.</p><p>         The world spins as David flips them over, pressing his teeth to Diarmuid’s neck and pulling back so their positions are reversed. Now David is the one kneeling with his strong thighs spread across Diarumuid’s waist. The sight makes Diarmuid blush and a thousand sinful images run through his mind, but David shifts back and presses calloused hands to Diarmuid’s ankles. He looks up, debauched, heat high on his cheeks.</p><p>         Diarmuid nods and David slides his hands up Diarmuid’s legs, dragging the hem of his robes up, over his knees, now his thighs, now his hips. He would feel horribly embarrassed about being exposed like this, but David’s gaze is hot on his hips.</p><p>         David seems to be having a war within himself, and Diarmuid is about to open his mouth to reassure him when David leans forward to press a quick kiss to his lips and fixes him with a gaze that says: “trust me.” Diarmuid could do nothing else, so nods and waits, watching David slide back. He leans down and presses his lips all around Diarmuid’s hips, glancing up at him frequently to make sure he’s okay. He seems almost nervous, which Diarmuid feels is ridiculous, but then David takes Diarmuid in his hand and bends down, pressing his lips to the head of Diarmuid’s erection.</p><p>         Diarmuid lets out a yell and David shifts back, worried eyes meeting his.</p><p>         “Please don’t stop,” Diarmuid begs, feeling like his chest is going to explode. David bends down again and kisses along his length, before sliding back up to the head and slipping his tongue out to press against the slit, dipping beneath his foreskin and sliding along to catch the liquid spilling from his erection. Diarmuid thinks he may die from the pleasure, but then David opens his mouth and takes him in and <em>sucks</em>.</p><p>         Diarmuid bites his hand hard to keep from waking the entire monastery. It’s obscene how good it feels and he’s abruptly sweating. David reaches up for his free hand and brings it down to clench in David’s hair. Diarmuid can't think. He clenches his fingers in David's soft, dark curls and David moans around him, vibrations making Diarmuid gasp. Everything is too hot and David pins Diarmuid’s hips down with firm hands on his hips, sucking, and the soft, pillowy heat of his mouth is ecstasy—</p><p>         He spills much too quickly and moans against his hand as David swallows the fluid, cleaning the mess with his mouth. Diarmuid's heart beats frantically and he thinks he may in fact be dying, but David is suddenly there, running calming hands along his arms and pressing sweet kisses to his jaw. His lips are rubbed red and puffy and Diarmuid presses his fingers to them, residual arousal aching in his chest. David kisses his fingertips and presses Diarmuid’s hand to his chest to feel David’s steady heartbeat.</p><p>         Once Diarmuid’s breathing has slowed a bit David stands and grabs a cloth, wetting it and wiping them both down before climbing back into the bed. He leans back against the cool stone wall and shifts to accommodate Diarmuid leaning against his chest.</p><p>         “That was not what I was expecting when I came here tonight,” Diarmuid admits, feeling Diarmuid’s silent laughter against his back. He had never heard of someone doing what David did to him, and a spike of jealous anger shoots through his chest at the idea that David may have done the same thing with someone else. He dismisses the prideful thought with not complete success and focuses on David being here with him right now. The present moment is what matters.</p><p>         “I really need to do that for you next time,” he says without thinking. David’s breath stops for a moment in surprise, just long enough for Diarmuid to start panicking, but then he feels a soft kiss press to his hair and David’s fingers trace along his arm, lulling them both into sleep.</p><p>                              </p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Interlude</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>There's a heat wave at the monastery and David tries to distract himself.</p><p>A very short interlude while I try to figure out what to write next.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This fic has devolved into (very dirty) porn. Totally not my intention, for the record.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>         It’s too hot. The stone walls of his small home are a blessing in the winter months, but during the summer season his walls act as a oven. He cannot cool off, even when he’s lying bare on his bed in the middle of the night. Sweat pools on his skin as he lays there, praying for sleep that won’t come. The heat wave descended upon the monastery several days previous and had not let up since. Even the ocean water provides no relief against the skin.</p><p>         At least he can distract himself, he decides, sliding his hand down his stomach. Earlier in the day, he and Diarmuid had taken a long, slow walk along the shoreline in an attempt to find some relief from the heat. Diarmuid had gathered his robes up to his thighs to wade in the surf, exposing his knees and reminding David of women who’d pull their skirts up to flirt with soldiers. He’d had to avert his gaze to avoid pulling Diarmuid down into the sand.</p><p>         He does not think Diarmuid would not have protested being pressed down into the sandy beach and kissed until his sun burned skin went red with blush. In the privacy of his own mind, he imagines he could cover Diarmuid with his own body, grip those pale knees and pull him close so his thighs bracket David’s hips.</p><p>         The daydream made him painfully hard and he slowly pulled at his erection, leaking everywhere at the thought of slowly pressing between Diarmuid’s soft thighs, right into the heat of his body. The way Diarmuid’s mouth would drop open in shock, how he would gasp and dig his blunt nails into David’s back— the tight heat of his body and how his lips would be slack as David pressed reverent kisses to them.</p><p>         David sighs, stretchy an arm up to grip the sheets above his head and pulling hard, moisture slicking the way. Maybe it would be the other way around and Diarmuid would be inside him—</p><p>         “Oh.”</p><p>         David jumps in shock, but it’s only Diarmuid at the door, his eyes wide as clamshells. Embarrassed at being caught, David flails to grab a sheet and cover himself as Diarmuid slides inside and closes the door.</p><p>         “Wait, don’t,” he commands. David freezes, heart drumming hard as Diarmuid slowly steps within touching distance.</p><p>         He clenches the sheets in his hands, watching Diarmuid’s pupils expand and track along his body, coming to rest on his erection leaking against his belly. Diarmuid licks his lips and David feels himself twitch in response, slick spilling from him and sliding down to pool against the dark curls along his stomach.</p><p>         Diarmuid climbs onto the bed, sitting against his knees.</p><p>         “Can…I’d like to watch you,” he suggests, shifting in David’s lap.</p><p>         <em>Oh, </em>David thinks, impressed by Diarmuid's bravado. He leans back slowly and reaches down, watching Diarmuid’s eyes track his hand. He rubs his thumb against the head of his erection, spreading the fluid around and sucking in a breath at the sharp jolt of pleasure.</p><p>         Diarmuid squirms in David’s lap, breath shaky.</p><p>         “You’re so handsome,” Diarmuid whispers, voice thick with arousal and running his hands up and down David’s strong thighs, breathing picking up as he watches David touch himself.</p><p>         “Sometimes I think about you…holding me down,” Diarmuid confesses in a rush, “and biting me, and…I imagine the feel of you rutting into me. Your chest against my back— the way I’d bruise with your strength, and how it would hurt but I’d like it—“</p><p>         David’s hips jolt up hard, all animal instinct, and he groans, reaching for Diarmuid— but Diarmuid leans back, shaking his head.</p><p>         “No. I want to watch you bring yourself pleasure. I want to see you spill against your skin.”</p><p>         David grimaces and puts his hand back on himself, pulling frantically.</p><p>         “You’re so…There’s so much fluid. I don’t produce this much…” Diarmuid says almost to himself, watching pre ejaculate spill from David’s slit and dipping his fingers into the slick collected on his belly.</p><p>         “I want to do what you did for me last time we were together,” Diarmuid whispers, pressing the sticky fluid into David’s hips and rubbing his fingers against the muscles of David’s waist, “I want to put my mouth on you, taste you, take you in—“</p><p>         David gasps, feeling more slick spurt out of him at the thought of Diarmuid’s soft lips against him, the heat of his mouth, spilling in him and watching him choke and swallow—</p><p>         “I want to feel you in me, feel you spill your seed in me, claim me—“</p><p>         David’s hips jolt again and he spills, arching his back hard and hearing Diarmuid groan in sympathy, fingers digging into David’s waist so hard he knows he’ll bruise.</p><p>         He comes down slowly, chest heaving and suddenly aware of the sweat pooling in his sternum and the embarrassing amount of fluid on his stomach. He looks up to see Diarmuid’s shocked face and reality crashes down on him— hot red flush running up his chest. He shifts against the bed to get up but Diarmuid is suddenly there, pressing his shoulders down and murmuring praise into his ear.</p><p>         When David’s panic subsides, Diarmuid leans back and presses his tongue into the viscous liquid scattered across David’s skin. David yelps, the stab of arousal painful now that he’s sated. Diarmuid smiles against him and licks, cleaning him.</p><p>         David is overwhelmed, tangling a hand into Diarmuid’s curls and stomach twitching at the sight of Diarmuid’s tongue lapping at his skin.</p><p>         David gestures him up, pulling at his thighs and tugging at his robe. Diarmuid’s blush suddenly rivals his own and David tilts his head at him.</p><p>         “I already…um…” His lips twist and David gapes.</p><p>         “You’re really very beautiful, David,” Diarmuid defends himself, tugging his robes back into place. He flops down next to David, smiling at him with happy, flushed lips.</p><p>         “And once you’ve recovered, I really do want you inside me.”</p><p>         David chokes on air and Diarmuid’s bright laugh fills their home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Blossom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Fun times in some sand dunes ft. The Wonky Eyebrow (TM)— inspired by Discord.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>            Winter was melting away. Over the past couple of years, David had noticed that spring along the Irish coast was heralded by a 5-petaled flower the color of lake ice that would pop up along the ridge line between the dunes and the sandy shore. The blossoms are delicate but surprisingly resilient to the Irish cold, bending and springing back into their shape under David’s fingers when he touches them. They make him think of Diarmuid—soft and careful, but with a quick wit and passionate strength that flares up into a storm when called upon.</p><p>            Sitting on the sandy shore as the sun passes its zenith, he stares at Diarmuid’s profile as the young man messes with one of their baskets. The sea breeze tugs at his curly hair and makes Diarmuid shiver and curl his arms around himself, fingers tugging at his robes. David reaches up and cups Diarmuid's cheek in his hand, thumb reaching up to stroke his left eyebrow. The hairs in the center of that brow stick up, unruly, like part of Diarmuid's rebellious soul fought its way to the surface when he was being made. David uses the defiant hairs as an excuse to touch Diarmuid, pretending to rub the hairs into place. Diarmuid responds to his attention with a content smile, his warmth reaching parts of David's soul that the sun can no longer touch.</p><p>---</p><p>         David's eyes track the blossoming florals as he follows Diarmuid back towards the monastery— the baskets on David's shoulders are pleasantly heavy with sea vegetables, another sign of the shifting seasons, and the monks would be pleased with their work for the day.</p><p>         Diarmuid voice drifts back to him on the ocean wind—something about an herb that Ciaran is running low on. David’s eyes track from the blue flowers to the back of Diarmuid’s neck, flushed pink from the sun—the soft brown hair curling along his neck, tempting David's fingers. His hair will need trimming soon. David’s eyes slide down from Diarmuid’s soft hair to his waist and heats spikes in David's chest, abrupt and unexpected. His mind jumps back to Diarmuid’s whispered confession several days previous, when he was sitting on David’s thighs as David touched himself and Diarmuid stuttered out his daydream of David holding him down—</p><p>         As they walk between a particularly high set of dunes, David drops the baskets from his shoulders into the muffling sand and sneaks up behind Diarmuid, slipping his fingers under Diarmuid’s rope belt and tugging until they fall into the side of the dune. Diarmuid yelps playfully when he lands in the sand and David crowds over him, pressing Diarmuid’s belly into the earth. Diarmuid’s happy laughter stops with a choke when David presses his hips against Diarmuid’s backside, letting Diarmuid feel the stiffness between his legs. He pauses, blood roaring through his veins, and waits— as he always does— for Diarmuid’s permission. Diarmuid’s breathing changes from play to arousal and he nods, pressing his elbows into the sand and curling his sandy hands into his hair with tight fingers.</p><p>         Permission granted, David presses his lips to the back of Diarmuid’s neck, tongue sneaking out and tasting salt and sun. He slides his hands down Diarmuid’s hips, rucking his robes up so he can kneel between Diarmuid’s legs. Once there’s enough space for his hips, David grips Diarmuid’s slim waist and pulls Diarmuid back against him, thrusting hard against his backside. Diarmuid lets out a yell and presses back, hands flailing out and scrabbling for purchase in the sand. David feels like he’s lost control, rutting against Diarmuid, no doubt leaving finger prints against Diarmuid’s pale waist, but Diarmuid just squirms and moans, tilting his hips back and panting.</p><p>         “David, touch me, please—“</p><p>        Blood rushing to his face, David sneaks a hand under Diarmuid’s rucked up robes, finding Diarmuid’s swelling erection and tugging, relishing in Diarmuid’s surprised whimpers. <em>Sometime, they would do this properly</em>, David promises himself, and David would press into Diarmuid’s heat, find that place within men that makes them go mad with pleasure and spill too quickly, but for now…</p><p>         David rubs his fingers into the already weeping head of Diarmuid’s erection, pulling them both back so David can brace himself on his knees and Diamuid sits in his lap, legs spread wide around David’s thighs and back pressed up to David’s chest. David slides his free hand down, underneath Diarmuid’s robes, and snakes his hand up along the inside of a strong thigh to cup Diarmuid’s testicles softly, squeezing carefully and rubbing his fingers through the soft hairs.</p><p>         “David, David, David,” Diarmuid begs, gripping at David’s arms, legs spreading even wider. David growls, rolling his hips up and spreading the fluid along Diarmuid's erection, setting up a hard rhythm to get him off quickly. He should have waited until they were somewhere private so he could drag this out without the fear of being caught—</p><p>         David feels Diarmuid tense and spill against his hand with a choked off cry, balls drawing up tight, and he curls forward, palms falling to the sandy dunes and clenching at the earth. David pushes Diarmuid forward to lay on his belly in the sand and ruts against him, leaning down to bite hard into Diarmuid’s shoulder where his robe has been pulled aside with his squirming. David spills in his breeches with the taste of Diarmuid's skin on his tongue, hips pressing hard against the soft mounds of Diarmuid’s backside. Diarmuid lets out a small "oof" as David collapses on top of him.</p><p>         Slowly, the whisper of ocean breeze through sea grass and Diarmuid’s satisfied breathing bring him back to the present. His runs his hands through the sand to scrape the semen off his fingers, and tugs at Diarmuid’s robe to cover his modesty. As Diarmuid lays in the sand, David does his usual study of Diarmuid to make sure he's okay—</p><p>        His stomach collapses in on itself and a strangled sound tears from his throat.</p><p>        “What’s wrong,” Diarmuid asks, wide brown eyes peering at David over his shoulder. </p><p>         There's a blood red mark on Diarmuid's shoulder where David had bitten him. Horrified, he brushes Diarmuid’s hair up and urges him to tilt his head to the side so David can get a better look at the wound. David had seen many bruises in his life, and he knows this one will turn purple over the coming days, tormenting David with this reminder of the violence always hovering under David's skin. He leans down and presses his lips as softly as possible against the ugly bruise, enraged with himself—</p><p>         “Oh, it’s okay,” Diarmuid says easily, figuring it out and reaching a hand up to run through David's hair. </p><p>         David shakes his head, pressing hushed kisses all along his shoulder and feeling heated liquid fill his eyes. Even in this, his demons manage to take control, make him hurt people, hurt <em>Diarmuid</em>—</p><p>         “David, don’t,” Diarmuid commands, squirming against him until David pulls back and Diarmuid can turn to face him. His eyes go wide at the sight of David’s concern and his soft hands leap up to cup David’s face, running through his beard.</p><p>         “Don’t,” he commands again, voice firm as steel, “I liked it.”</p><p>         David’s chest is tight like it used to get before a battle, and he clenches his jaw in an attempt not to argue. Running his hands along Diarmuid’s waist to distract himself, he blinks hard at the ground, sea grass and the coastal blossoms blurring with the moisture welling his eyes. </p><p>         “I really, really liked it, David. And maybe sometime I can do the same...leave a mark on you," Diarmuid suggests, flush filling his cheeks, "if you'd like."</p><p>         The concept of Diarmuid marking him like that shocks David with a spike of pleasure and takes the sting away from what he's done. Is that something Diarmuid wants? Does he want to leave his own animalistic mark on David's ruined body? He finds that he does want Diarmuid to claim him like that, very much, and with a sudden ferocity that's alarming. He stares at the ground for too long trying to parse through his thoughts, but Diarmuid is patient and waits for him, fingers petting through his beard in a now familiar gesture of affection. Eventually David manages to make eye contact and nod. Diarmuid smiles that spring flower smile, and David can’t help but lean in and kiss his lips in gratitude.</p><p>         Diarmuid laughs against his mouth and wraps his arms around David’s neck, pulling him to lay down in the sand. It’s a long time before they get up to finish their trek home.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Thud</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>David will do anything Diarmuid asks.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is BIG SAD. So much sad. If you want to know context, it's at the end of the chapter. You've been warned.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>         Diarmuid’s hints are not subtle. David is avoiding it, but he knows he’ll give in soon.</p><p>         David has experienced much discomfort in his life, and this specific discomfort would not be new to him. He had found it humiliating and painful when he was forced into it before, but he tells himself it will be different if it’s Diarmuid, and it will be different because it will be his choice this time. He wants to do this for Diarmuid— the one person who has managed to give him some measure of peace despite the demons he carries.</p><p>        And while he can freely admit to himself that he wants to give this to Diarmuid, he finds his chest aching every time he thinks of doing so. It takes several days, but he finally manages to quell the writhing feeling in his belly long enough to get his acquiescence across to Diarmuid, who beams and kisses him happily, joy blatant on his face. He can no longer tell if the writhing is the result of snakes or butterflies.</p><p>       ---</p><p>         After the monastery’s evening meal Diarmuid follows David to his clochán, bouncing in anticipation, and despite David’s nerves he smiles at the giddy behavior. David hopes that Diarmuid interprets his tension as anticipation as he tears off his clothes and hurries to lay belly down on the bed before Diarmuid takes notice of his less than enthused state.</p><p>         <em>At least Diarmuid asked,</em> David reminds himself. <em>He could simply tell David what to do and he’d do it, willingly, without resistance.</em> As the thought springs to mind he balks— Diarmuid would never behave that way. </p><p>         He feels Diarmuid clamor onto the bed and David shivers as Diarmuid start to massage along his tense back— fingers dipping between his muscles to press along the bones of his spine. Diarmuid's soothing hands on his skin would normally make him relax to the point of sleep, but tonight sleep is the last thing on his mind. Diarmuid shifts and his hands slide down to tap against the back of David’s thighs.</p><p>         David’s heart pounds hard and nausea rises in his throat, but he spreads his knees enough for Diarmuid to kneel between them. He smells the past— smoke and horses, unbathed soldiers and rotting—</p><p>         He loses time and is brought back by an oddly slick feeling against his waist. He flinches—</p><p>         “It’s okay, it’s just oil,” Diarmuid says, slippery fingers sliding along the back of his hips, “for slick.”</p><p>         He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, grateful that he insisted on facing away from Diarmuid. Diarmuid’s hands pause on his skin, warm and slick. David's lungs won't pull in a full breath and he’s sweating like a horse before battle. He wants nothing more than to for Diarmuid to change his mind and wrap him in his arms—</p><p>         “David,” Diarmuid’s voice whispers in his ear. David flinches and tries to cover it by relaxing his jaw and tilting his head to signal his attention.</p><p>         “David, will you turn around please?”</p><p>         <em>No.</em> This will not work if Diarmuid can see his face—</p><p>         Diarmuid says a word David doesn’t recognize, hands nudging at David's hips to get him to shift onto his back. David doesn't know how to fix this—</p><p>         “Please turn around, mo grá,” Diamuid requests, using the unknown word again.</p><p>         David swallows hard, shifting to to sit up next to Diarmuid and trying desperately to calm his face into something that Diarmuid might find encouraging. He must fail terribly, because Diarmuid goes pale in the low light, furrowed brow going slack with sadness.</p><p>         Seeing such blatant disappointment on Diarmuid’s face wounds something deep in David’s chest and he looks away, shoulders hiking up defensively—</p><p>         But Diarmuid climbs into his lap, winding his arms around David’s shoulders and pulling David’s face to his favorite spot— hidden in the junction of Diarmuid’s jaw and neck. Diarmuid is the one person he swore he would not disappoint, and now look what he’s done. David's lungs suddenly inflate properly and he sucks in a shaky breath—again, and again. Diarmuid murmurs calm things into his hair, petting along his damp neck.</p><p>         Diarmuid says his name again, and David doesn’t want this, <em>it wasn’t supposed to go like this</em>—</p><p>         “Mo grá, why didn’t you tell me you don’t want this?”</p><p>         <em>It’s not like that</em>, David thinks hysterically, <em>it’s not like that—</em> </p><p>         “David,” Diarmuid moans suddenly, pulling back and looking into David's eyes with a horror struck look on his face, “David, have you wanted any of this?”</p><p>         David's mouth drops open in shock. <em>How has this all gone so horribly wrong?</em></p><p>         “David, I haven’t been…?” Diarmuid’s voice climbs higher in stress and David won’t let Diarmuid’s line of thought continue. He shakes his head frantically, groaning through his teeth in frustration. Gripping Diarmuid’s chin, he leans in and kisses the horror from Diarmuid’s lips.</p><p>         It’s a long time before they both manage to find some calm, having shifted to tangle together on David’s bed. The familiar sick adrenaline crash settles in David's muscles, making him feel weak and sluggish. He wishes they could forget this whole thing and just fall into slumber. He imagines they could wake up in the morning and walk down to the coast, feel the cold ocean water around their ankles, walking hand-in-hand— </p><p>         “David,” Diarmuid breaks into his daydream, leaning up on his elbow to look down at David, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I don’t want that, I just…”</p><p>         David jerks a shoulder, trying to pass it off.</p><p>         “Don’t,” Diarmuid says, fiddling with the sheet he had thrown over David’s lap (and the look in his eyes when he noticed David wasn’t aroused was something David would never forget).</p><p>         “Maybe,” Diarmuid suggests, “sometime we could try the other way around.”</p><p>         David balks, mouth twisting at the thought. It’s the exact scenario he was trying to avoid—</p><p>         “You won’t hurt me,” Diarmuid insists, demonstrating his eerie ability to read David’s thoughts on his face like a manuscript.</p><p>         “I promise,” Diarmuid says in response to David's resultant frown, fingers reaching up to run along David's lips, “do you trust me?”</p><p>         David is nodding even before the question has fully left Diarmuid’s mouth.</p><p>         “When you decide, we can try that way—if you want. And I promise I won’t hurt you, and you won’t hurt me. Okay?”</p><p>         David nods in the face of Diarmuid’s overwhelming confidence, though he can see his uncertainty is making Diarmuid fretful.</p><p>         “Mo grá, please don’t force yourself to do something for my sake. I cannot bear the thought of you doing something against your will because you think it will please me.”</p><p>         Though it hurts him to do so, David forces himself to nod, teeth aching as he clenches the bones together. Whatever Diarmuid wants, that's what he'll do. </p><p>---</p><p>        When sun breaks along the horizon Diarmuid walks them down to the ocean and they spend the morning walking hand-in-hand along the coast.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Warnings: Almost non-con, but it doesn't actually happen. Also implied past non-con.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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